


deep eyes, fiery black and bold

by gloss



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Mutual Pining, proximity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26859070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: They always survive; they always catch each other. So why can't they move past this awkwardness?
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70
Collections: Writing Rainbow Black





	deep eyes, fiery black and bold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nununununu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/gifts).



> I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils. — Moby-Dick, Chapter 10: " A Bosom Friend"

This was supposed to be a straightforward mission: Finn and Poe drop onto the artificial moon, do the deal, set up the resource network, and get out.

The site of several mining attempts and other failed enterprises, the facility is overgrown with warehouses and factories erected wherever the owners could. No planning, no grid, not even local way-signs, so you're lost as soon as you turn around. The weather, too, is terrible; the atmospheric controls belong to competing factions.

"Could be worse," Poe says on the way to the meeting. His chin is tucked into the collar of his parka, which itself is wrapped with a thick muffler.

"This ought to be good," Finn replies.

He elbows Finn and grins wickedly. "We could be getting shot at."

Finn is not all that superstitious — that's Poe, as pilots tend to be — but he has to groan at the bad luck that just got called down on their heads. 

"Thanks," he tells Poe as they arrive at the meeting site. "Thanks _ever_ so much for that."

"No problem, buddy." He's still grinning, rocking a little side-to-side, coming to rest against Finn's shoulder each time. 

Even through the layers of insulating clothing they're both wearing, physical contact with Poe is inescapable. Not that Finn would ever want to escape it; over the last several months since evacuating Crait, his new life has acquired some strange, astonishing features that he now cannot imagine doing without. Working with Poe, spending free time with Poe, _knowing_ the man, is one of those features.

Maybe he should reevaluate that feeling later in the wake of how terribly the meeting goes. (But he doesn't.)

Their contact in the Narazallian criminal hierarchy turns on them and what was supposed to be a quiet, productive meeting (albeit with savage exploiters) becomes an all-out brawl and firefight. Finn takes out the contact, Poe tosses mortar shells like sticky sweets at Yavin's Solar Day parade, and they run like hell. 

They slip and skid in the slush, tear around corners and down blind mews, beating at each other's shoulders, urging each other on. They crash into their safehouse in a heap, soaked and cold and breathless.

They escape by the skin of their teeth and seat of their pants and every other threadbare metaphor out there.

"At this rate," Finn observes, shedding the wet layers, shivering and soaked to the skin by sleeting rain, "we'd be lucky to have teeth and trousers left."

The safehouse is not much larger than their bunk on Ajan Kloss, but much, much colder and dustier. Darker, too, as it's windowless and they have yet to get the heat working.

"Toothless and naked?" Poe replies as he wrestles with the heater's controls. He glances up, catching Finn's eye, and grins. Every time he does, it's like something stitches a little tighter across Finn's chest; by the end of this mission, he expects he'll be smocked and smothered. "Like the day we were born."

"Have to find more essentials to start scraping by in," Finn says. "Fingers? Underwear. Plain ol' skin."

"Ass?" Poe suggests. Then he coughs a couple times, drily, and waves off Finn's interrogative noise. He's ducking his head, scowling at the heater. He wrenches off the front of the console and pokes at the switches.

"Sounds good to me," Finn says. He swallows the snicker that discomfort and self-consciousness suggest would be appropriate and adds, in a clearer voice, "Ass, I mean."

Startled, Poe drops the knob in his hand and grins so wide and happy that a wave of heat — despite the sleet, despite the fear, despite _everything_ — rocks through him.

But that means he can't think very clearly, even when Poe goes forward on one knee. He sets aside the heater parts and jabs at Finn's trousers. "Get these off."

Now Finn does laugh; that snicker has transformed into a thunderclap of a laugh that catches Poe unaware and sets him back on his heels. 

"Because they're wet," Poe says as he turns around. "Because you've gotta be uncomfortable."

"Lots of reasons, sure."

His back's turned, but Poe's voice still comes loud and slightly false. "So many reasonable reasons!"

They're stuck in this bolthole for a couple days at least, since the meeting that just blew up was only the first stage of the mission. Yet the prospect of another _hour_ of this choppy, awkward, back and forth is enough to make Finn want to jump out of his skin.

They always get through these phases. Just like they always manage, somehow, to escape, they always endure these extended moments of unease.

It's just that facing another always feels like it will be the last, and the worst. Endless and awkward and terrible. They get along so well, and then the air goes heavy and they stutter and seize up.

"Get the heat going, I'll make some food," Finn offers.

"Buddy, I'm trying, I really am, but..." His back still to Finn, hunched over the heater, Poe trails off. That alone is strange enough, so highly unlike him, that Finn forgets to worry about discomfort.

Instead, he moves beside Poe and shines his ring torch on the scattered parts. "What's up?"

Poe makes a noise that falls somewhere among a wheeze, a sigh, and a chuckle.

"You're going to need to translate that," Finn says gently. His balance rocks a little and Poe takes his elbow, steadying him.

They're looking at each other now, unblinking, silent. 

Their breathing is rough, their eyes wide.

 _Anything_ could happen.

"Everything works when we don't think about it," Finn says, glancing at Poe's hand, leaning into the touch. It's the truth — they'll catch each other, touch and incline together, instinctively. It's when they hear themselves, when there's enough time to reflect on implications, that they freeze and the awkwardness overwhelms. "Ever notice that?"

"I never think," Poe replies. "Ask anyone."

"Sure you do."

Poe snorts derisively, but he doesn't look away. They must have both blinked at some point, right? But Finn hasn't noticed.

"You do," Finn continues and Poe's grip on his elbow tightens. "So quick, though, it's hard to observe."

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah-huh."

Poe works his lips together, bites the inside of his cheek, bounces slowly. He thinks with his whole self, his entire body. Once you know that, Finn believes, you realize he's constantly adjusting and evaluating and reacting.

"Not sure how I feel about this role reversal," Poe says finally. "Aren't I the one complimenting you? That's how it should go."

Finn smiles. 

"What?" Poe presses. "Why are you smirking like that?"

"Not smirking. Smiling."

"Why are you smiling, then?"

"It's funny, that's all," Finn says. 

"What is?"

He could draw this out, Finn knows, make Poe squirm and complain and protest, really turn up the discomfort. In an odd, highly contradictory way, doing that would save them from further, deeper discomfort. They could maintain this recurrent awkwardness and avoid addressing anything real.

That would also be dishonest. They can both feint and digress with the best of them, but after a point — not that Finn is certain they've reached that point — such playacting ceases to be casual face-saving and becomes deceptive, even mocking.

He swallows a couple times. He feels Poe's gaze on him as he does, though it's dark in here and you can't actually _feel_ a gaze.

"Resistance hero Commander Poe Dameron, uncomfortable with a little praise and very close quarters," Finn says finally. "It's funny in that out of proportion sense. Like a Jedi afraid of a bug."

Poe doesn't say anything for a bit. He's thinking, and he doesn't move away — if anything, he shifts somewhat closer. "Good kind of funny?"

"The best kind of funny," Finn tells him. Still crouching, he shuffles so he can take hold of Poe's other arm. They face each other, shadows drawing spears down their cheeks, but their eyes bright and watchful.

"Well, hell," Poe says, hoarse and wondering. "We're doing this, aren't we?"

They always get away. They always survive. So long as they're at each other's side.

"Yeah," Finn says and grabs the front of Poe's jersey, wrenching him close, tipping their faces together so they breathe the same hot, frantic air. "We are. Finally."


End file.
